


Falling Is Just Like Flying

by Ellie5192



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Not written as ship but you can see it if you want to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are we falling or flying, Are we living or dying, Cause my friend this too shall pass, So play every show like it's your last"<br/>John grieves for the loss of his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Is Just Like Flying

_Are we falling or flying._

_And on the 23 rd night, things ain’t bad but things ain’t right._

John makes it through the funeral. He makes it through Mycroft’s distant but well-meaning attempts to contribute to his life. He makes it through Harry’s insistence that he move in with her for a bit, Lestrade’s condolences, and he makes it through Mrs Hudson’s constant fussing and crying. John does remarkably well, keeping it all together for those first few weeks, without breaking down or going insane. Sherlock would be proud of how well he’s keeping his emotions in check, which both pleases him and sickens him. Has he really been so changed by the presence of one man? Well, whatever the cause, John makes it precisely three and a half weeks after the fall.

And then one day he packs up his things, gets on a train and goes north.

He has no destination in mind except _not London_ , and he watches the countryside out his window, and he doesn’t cry. He’s pleasant to the ticket inspector, and he even manages to flirt a little with the woman at the front desk of the tiny Bed and Breakfast he’s staying at in Edinburgh.

He can’t tell if his detached indifference to the world around him is progress or a certifiable condition. He also can’t bring himself to care.

_And on the 35th morning, things ain't good but things ain't boring_

He’s in Birmingham when he manages, if only for a moment, to forget. Forget Sherlock, forget his fall, forget the emotional rollercoaster he’s been on since and the reason he’s away from London at all.

He’s chasing a man down a dark street (because he’ll be damned if this bloody idiot is getting his money) and the adrenaline takes over. He dodges poles and ducks behind cars faster than his brain can fully compute, even jumping clear over a knocked-over recycling wheelie bin. And though he’s not nearly as fit as he was in the Army, he’s still got something in him, and before long the guy has abandoned the chase and John’s backpack along with it.

Huffing and puffing, he picks up his bag from the drain where it’s been dropped and grins, and lets out a little giggle over his victory.

And then collapses to the footpath, tears stinging the back of his eyes.

The first thing he’s done that’s even remotely crime-related since he lost Sherlock, and the only person he wants to tell about it is gone.

He sits on the footpath and huffs through an unexpected round of tears, and then he’s back on his feet, and wiping his eyes, and heading back to his hotel. He doesn’t look back, but he’s not much looking forward either. He’s left feeling nothing, but feeling far too much at the same time. So this is what _acceptance_ feels like.

 _Cause on the 42nd night, the room was dark but the stage was bright_.

It takes another week, but John makes his way back to London. His first thought as he gets off the train is that he’ll really need to get his job back. The second is that he really needs to get his life back. He’s seen the countryside now, and cleared his head, and whether Sherlock is alive or dead is irrelevant. He still has faith in him- only Sherlock could be that clever. But John can’t live his life waiting for a ghost to reappear, and he refuses to undo all the good Sherlock did in bringing him back to life. He’s going to live if it kills him, and maybe one day he’ll find the answers he’s looking for.

It’s late, so he makes his way back to Baker Street in a cab, and he’s less surprised than he should be to see that Mrs Hudson hasn’t cleared out his things and rented the rooms. Everything is just as he left it.

He dumps his bags at the top of the stairs and walks up the second flight to his room. He’s too tired to linger in front of the silent violin. Tucking himself under the covers, he makes a quick assessment of where he’s at, mentally and emotionally.

Not great, but getting there.

He knows when he looks back at himself tomorrow, today won’t feel so long, and he knows that it’s an improvement. He’s not sure if he’s getting better or worse, from one moment to the next, but he takes a calming breath and settles further into his pillow, and it feels like home. He’s exactly where he should be, and that’s enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Falling or Flying" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, from which I lovingly borrowed the above lyrics.


End file.
